Heartbeats
by LostInWonderland72
Summary: Series of oneshots set in the Golden Age centred on the Pevensies. There are challenges that every monarch must face-not to mention every child. How much can you feel in a few heartbeats? Snapshots of the Golden Age, from its shimmering glory to its darkest days. Siblingfic. Ch11-Oreius: Duty, Part 2.
1. Lucy: Night Terrors

A/N: So, this is my first fanfiction! Yay! I thought I'd start out by just doing a series of short oneshots to get into this, because I'm not quite sure what I'm doing yet... Please tell me what you think, I'd love to know how I'm doing! But please, no flames...

DISCLAIMER: I don't own the Pevensies, or any other characters mentioned that were created by the wonderful C. S. Lewis. I'm just playing with them for a while. I promise to put them back safely.

This is a series of oneshots set in the Golden Age, that lovely long gap that's left mostly to the imagination. This one is set straight after the coronation, as shown on the film.

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><p>Queen Lucy the Valiant could not sleep.<p>

It was uncomfortably warm under the blankets, but Lucy dared not poke her head out of them. The sound of her own breath was unbearably loud in her ears, and despite the heat, a chill crawled over her. She desperately wanted a gasp of the cool, clear air that wafted enticingly outside of her cocoon of safety, but she was sure that if she should reveal the tiniest bit of herself, the vicious monsters that lurked in the shadows would attack mercilessly. Her bedchamber was extremely dangerous. Grotesque, carnivorous creatures sprung out of the darkness the second it had fallen. They circled her bed, searching for an opening to get her.

Lucy summoned all of her courage and peeked out of a tiny gap in her blankets. The shadows loomed over her and leered frighteningly. She did, however, spot her only escape route. The door. If she could reach it without being snatched, then it would only be a short run to the safest place in the entire universe-Peter's room.

But Peter would be soundly asleep by now. He wasn't afraid of the monsters. Lucy had once thought that he wasn't afraid of anything, and she knew better now, but she didn't think there were many things that Peter was scared of. He would be slumbering blissfully, and Lucy was sure to wake him up if she went charging into his chamber. He and Edmund were both still recovering from the injuries they had sustained in the battle, and needed their sleep. She did not want to wake him. She remotely wondered if Peter might be angry with her-but quickly banished that thought from her mind. Peter was never really angry with her, and he had never turned her away before. Still, she knew what Peter was scared of, and that was her or her other siblings coming to harm. If she stayed here, the monsters were sure to get her.

Lucy took a deep breath, then flung the covers aside, hurtling across the floor. Her toe caught painfully on a table leg, and tears sprung to her eyes, but she hobbled quickly on, seizing the carved doorknob and tugging open the huge wooden door. She flew down the corridor towards another door at the end on the opposite side, hearing her own slam and the certainty that the monsters had followed her caused a thrill of fear to shoot down her spine.

She pulled open Peter's door and shut it carefully behind her, blowing out a long breath that she hadn't known she'd been holding. There was no way the monsters could follow her in here. She padded across the floor towards the enormous bed, and bounced lightly onto it. Lucy looked down at her golden big brother and smiled. The cut above his eye had not quite healed, but he looked calmer and more relaxed than she'd seen him look since they'd entered Narnia.

"Huh? ...Lucy?" Peter mumbled.  
>She shifted guiltily, a flushed, sheepish expression stealing adorably across her face.<br>"Sorry, Peter. I tried not to wake you."  
>Peter grinned blearily. "S'alright, Lu. C'mere...you ok?"<br>"Yes," Lucy smiled and slipped under the covers, snuggling into her sleepy brother's side, whose arm automatically wrapped itself around her, safe and secure.  
>"There were dark shadows in my room, and it's so big...I kept thinking that there were monsters hiding in them..." She shuddered, fear prickling over her skin. Peter's arm tightened, but when he spoke, she could hear his amusement.<br>" Lu, there are shadows in my room too, you know."  
>"Yes, but...you're in your room..." Lucy frowned, not happy with her explanation. Peter chuckled and the warm, chesty sound chased all thoughts of monsters in the dark from her mind. Her big brother would protect her. Besides, if there was anything creeping around, it wouldn't dare come into Peter's bedchamber, not if it had seen how he fought at Beruna and she'd spotted Rhindon on the other side of her brother's bed.<p>

Yes, she was much safer here.

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><p><strong>AN:** Hope that wasn't too bad! The next one will probably be pretty angsty, and possibly Susan-centric. Please tell me what you thought!


	2. Susan: Resolve

**A/N:** And now for something completely different! This one is a lot darker. But there will be more fluff, I promise

DISCLAIMER: I don't own the Pevensies, or any other characters mentioned that were created by the wonderful C. S. Lewis. I'm just playing with them for a while. I promise to put them back safely.

So this runs with the idea that seeing as Lucy's cordial can heal mortal wounds, it would be treasured and kept safe and not carried around with them everywhere they went, right? So they're all out doing...something... with only a few soldiers, and they get ambushed without the cordial. Peter is wounded protecting Lucy and requires stitches.

Please review!

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><p>She can't do this.<p>

The needle is thicker than she is used to. The thread is coarser.

She can't do this.

It occurs to her in that moment that he can support and strengthen any one of them with the barest glance, but it will take all three of them to hold him together this time.

There is no anaesthetic, no relief from the pain. Edmund had helped him down a shot of something alcoholic which made her head swim with the fumes when she had snatched a whiff of it.

She does not think that it will help much.

But the fact is that they are in a crudely constructed camp pitched Aslan-knows-where in the middle of a wild autumn storm, and all their soldiers are either strewn dead about the surrounding moorland or tending their own injuries. The attack had been utterly unexpected. A victory had been narrowly and messily scraped. They had been totally unprepared, and now they were suffering for it.

Their High King will suffer the worst.

The wind screams in rage and beats at the side of their tent. The rain drums down ominously. In the tent it is swelteringly hot, and the bright fire blazes a little too defiantly, causing sweat to run down their backs and their eyes to ache.

She can't do this.

She can barely even imagine going through what Peter is going through. Edmund, she knows, has seen worse, felt similar. He knows pain almost as well as Peter does. He has allowed no interruption in his tending to Peter, and has sent nosy soldiers and inquisitive pages scurrying from the tent in terror with glances like dagger blades and words like poison.

It is only when Peter is threatened that he is truly vicious, she reflects.

His face is, if possible, as white as Peter's, but his jaw is locked and his shoulders are squared. He has seen this before. His dark eyes are fixed on Peter's face with indescribable intensity, the only thing that gives away his soul-deep fear for his brother's life. His grip on Peter's bare shoulders is painfully tight, but it is necessary. Peter must be kept still for her do what is asked of her. He has not looked at her.

He has not really looked at anyone but Peter.

Lucy has not seen this before. She weeps openly, face twisted in distress, and glances nervously around at everyone. She has never been this close to bloody, messy death. In her world, she has a magic cordial which can cure any injury, which means at the end of the day everything will be alright. It is a shame, Susan thinks, that she must have that innocence snatched so early, and in such a manner-with her oldest brother's golden head rested in her lap, his blood staining her hands, sweat soaking through his hair and into her dress. Her magic cordial is miles away, in a silver casket in a castle by the sea.

But she is brave. She has chosen to be here for Peter, in this hour when he needs them the most. She cries, but she runs her hands through his damp hair soothingly, and murmurs prayers to Aslan for him, and Susan has noticed that she holds a strip of leather which will soon be between Peter's teeth to prevent him biting through his tongue in his agony. Nothing terrifies Lucy so much as the thought of her towering pillar of strength cracking and falling, weakening, but she is here to help hold him up. Yes, she is brave indeed.

It is really she, Susan, who is the weakest of all of them. It is she who cannot steel herself to perform the task that has been asked of her.

Her hands tremble. The wound is red and angry, a deep gash from a serrated enemy blade. He had pushed Lucy out of the way, saving her but condemning himself. Such was Peter's manner.

Although it is hardly queenly, her lips wobble uncontrollably. Her eyes, already raw from crying, squeeze out a few more hot tears. She wishes for a moment that she were not so fond of sewing.

She can't do this.

She does not think that she will be able to even look at her embroidery when they return to the castle.

"My lady?"

Oreius's voice, soft and strong. He is behind her, holding down Peter's legs.

She cannot hesitate any more.

"I-I-"

A cold, thick hand wraps itself around her throat. She cannot speak. Peter's breaths are quick and shallow, sounding increasingly laboured. She cannot tear her eyes from the wound, which rises and falls with every gasp Peter takes.

Edmund's shoulders start to tremble.

Lucy wrings a cool cloth out and gently dabs at Peter's face.

"Susan?"

Her voice sounds wet and small.

"Susan, you have to. You have to do this. For Peter."

She looks up at Lucy's face, terrified but unwavering. She looks down at her only older sibling and thinks of every time he has saved her, from a wasp sting, from a rampaging minotaur, from a broken heart. Fierce love floods into every inch of her being. She presses her full lips into a hard line.

An iron resolve rises in her chest.

She gives one curt nod, then raises the needle and thread.

"Are you ready for this, Peter?"

"Just-do it," he grinds out.

She nods again, and begins. When the first scream is ripped from her brother's throat, she grits her teeth and carries on while Edmund and Oreius wrestle with him and Lucy cries and whispers comfort to him.

She must do this. For Peter.

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><p><strong>AN:** Ok, I'm definitely in need of writing fluff now, but there will be more serious ones too. Please review and tell me what you thought, I'm new to this... :)


	3. Edmund: Silence

A/N: I know I promised more fluff-and this one did start out as a fluff piece, honest-but it's Edmund. He tends to get angsty.

This chapter is for WillowDryad, because she's been so supportive of my first venture into fanfiction, and because she was waiting for this one ;) If you haven't already, go read her stories, they're incredible.

So I see this as taking place when they're a bit older, maybe 14 and 17 (it is three years between them, isn't it?), when they've had time to fight more battles together. And it is in NO WAY slash. Just brotherly love.

Please, please, please review! I really, really want to know if these short stories are any good...  
>Please tell me what you think of this. Even if it's only one word, like, 'fine'.<p>

There will be proper fluff up next, hopefully :)

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><p>The library is situated deep in the bowels of the castle. It is the lowest part, the room that has been sunk into the breast of the stark, white sea cliffs. It is long and rectangular, one side pressed into the rock face, the other entirely open to the fresh sea breeze, framed with intricate arches and low railings. It is all in white marble, save the bookshelves, which are carved elegantly from a dark wood and varnished, standing with their ends facing out to the vast, darkness-drenched expanse of sea and sky. At one end there is a spectacular fireplace, the blazing flames in which are the only source of dim light. Before it stands a table, which holds an intricately patterned chess set in gold and silver. It is one of the most valuable treasures in the palace.<p>

It is here that King Edmund the Just sits in the silence of the night.

The dawn is yet to come, and the fire glitters fondly over the precious metal pieces, and in the coal-black eyes of its King.

He will not sleep, not tonight.

"Eddie?"

The voice is impossibly soft.

Fire floods Edmund's guts. Peter is leaving tomorrow. Far away across the frozen mountains, to the rising of Witch's followers in the North. He will be gone for months and months and months_. _It will be cold and gruelling, it will put frost in his bones, put another scar on his body.

He is not taking Edmund.

A part of him is twisted in bitterness and jealousy. A sick feeling, in the very bottom of his stomach and at the very back of his throat. It lingers from a time when he looked less kindly on his brother.

Another part of him knows that he is being silly. A burning fever had seized him and held him tight in its grasp, shackling him to the castle, and he is shackled still, recovered, but not yet strong enough to go to war. Not yet strong enough to protect his brother, to take an arrow for him, to defend him until his dying breath.

This is the wicked sharp blade in Edmund's heart.

For far greater than bitterness or jealousy is an aching dread. They are together, always, Just and Magnificent. They ride to war side by side. Pride and patriotism swells in Edmund's chest when he hears Peter's battle cry. They fight together, breathe together, bleed together.

But tomorrow Peter will ride alone into the cold, clear morning, and Edmund does not know if he will see him again.

He is consumed completely by an icy terror that he might lose his big brother. He cannot quite bring himself to care about the effect Peter's death would have on the land of Narnia. He cares more that his brother would die alone, far away in a frozen land, and it wouldn't be anything like every other time either of them has felt Death fluttering close to them on a battlefield. There would be no one to gasp comfort through his own pain, no one to stem the bleeding with desperate, filthy hands, no one to press bloody, sweaty kisses to bloody, sweaty skin.

He thinks that this is maybe the worst bit of all.

Or perhaps the worst part is that there will be no one there on the days when guilt splits his chest and shame leaves him hot and flushed and miserable. He's fine, most of the time. Most days he rises with a smile and feels free to love Narnia and let Narnia love him.

But some days it's different. Some days, he feels like he doesn't belong there, doesn't deserve their admiration. He feels like a dirty, traitorous stain on Cair Paravel's glistening white floor. On those days, the only thing that can fill the cavernous hole in his chest is the absolute certainty, beyond any whispers of doubt, that his family loves him.

Peter's always known best how to tell him that. He doesn't do it with words, because Edmund knows better than anyone how words can be twisted and poisoned. Instead they sit together for hours in the quietness of their affection, and just love one another.

He hears quiet footsteps approach him from behind, and a warm hand settles on his shoulder. The nausea that had been clutching at Edmund's innards loosens slightly.

"Ed?"

Peter tries again, hesitant. Edmund can hear a million other questions in the word.

He finally breaks his intense staring match with a silver bishop, and looks up into his brother's face. Peter's expression is, as he expects, indescribably tender. As he expects, he has to grit his teeth and swallow hard against the rush of hot tears. He will not cry.

As their eyes lock-bright and dark-both of them understand a great many things simultaneously.

Edmund hopes that they do not have to say anything more aloud. He thinks that he is about a hair's breadth from breaking down utterly, and that quiet, golden voice will rip down the last shreds of his composure.

He jerks his chin sharply towards the over-cushioned chair on the opposite side of the board.

The challenge is accepted.

To Edmund's relief, Peter does not speak. He does brush his battle-roughened fingers against Edmund's pale cheek with devastating gentleness, in a caress worth a thousand embraces, and Edmund allows himself to crack, just a little, as his eyes slip closed, dark brows drawing together slightly and lips parting the tiniest bit.

That is all. Peter does not linger long enough to break him.

His skin feels empty at the loss of his brother's touch. He takes a shuddering breath and forces calm on himself, willing tears back. Collects the shattered pieces of his composure and pulls them roughly together in a mockery of control.

He will not cry.

He allows his mind to descend down the ladder of focus, sinking into the game until he knows nothing but strategy and sees nothing but the board. When he finally opens his eyes, his steel gaze bores into their checked stone battlefield.

Edmund takes the first move.

Their game is frantic, feverish, hysterical. They play with ridiculous intensity but in dead silence. They smack the pieces down in a thudding rhythm like the ticking of a clock, minds racing to match the speed of their opponent. It builds and builds and builds until they can almost taste the tension, and if Peter is alarmed then he does not show it.

The taut wire of silence is abruptly snapped. Edmund's trembling hand jerks violently as he makes his move, every muscle in his body tight with pain. The game is not enough distraction. Priceless chessmen are scattered across the checked board and skitter onto the cold marble floor.

One brave rook still stands upright.

Edmund lashes out at it viciously, sending it flying from the board into a dim corner.

His hand shakes as he presses it flat on the now-empty board, and rests his head wearily in his other hand. He is drained of anger, and the tension had melted with the clattering of the pieces.

He will not cry.

Peter reaches over, utterly calm, and gently peels the smaller hand off the chess board so that he can wind it tightly in his own.

Edmund locks their fingers together in an iron grip, hard enough to send whiteness flooding over their skin, hard enough to grind Peter's bones together, hard enough to just-only just-feel life pulsing in his brother's flesh.

He will not cry.

Peter lifts their entwined hands and slowly prises them apart. His touch is once again feather-soft and gentle as he turns his brother's trembling hand palm out, draws it to his mouth and ghosts a bittersweet kiss over the pale skin.

When Edmund starts to cry, Peter crosses the distance between them and kisses his brow and cheeks and eyes, too.

They do not speak.

When at last Edmund's eyes are dry, when his every tear has been kissed away, Peter gathers the scattered chessmen and sets them out meticulously.

They play into the night, moving their pieces in a never-ending circular dance, both boys neither wishing to win nor lose. Their silence is never broken.

When a pale sun rises and pierces the gloom with a cold, fresh morning, Edmund finally shatters their night-long hush.

"Checkmate."

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><p>AN: Hm. Edmund is harder to write than the girls, he's more complex :/ If anyone has any suggestions or requests, I'd love to hear them!

That poor little button is looking lonely... Please tell me what you thought! :)


	4. Lucy: Rainy Days

**A/N:** Here, finally, is that other piece of fluff. This is just some pointless silliness before things get intense again in the next few chapters.

Also, I was thinking of doing a similar thing to this but set in post-Narnia England, drawing from my experiences in an old fashioned English boarding school to put the Pevensies in one (or two) and see how they cope-it would probably be in oneshots like this. Sound good to anyone?

Please, please, please review! Reviews get me through my Greek exercises...

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><p>"But how long are they going to <em>be<em>, Susan?"

"I don't know, Lucy dear."

Lucy huffed and turned away from her older sister, who was stubbornly absorbed in her book and would not part with it for any distraction that Lucy could produce.

The driving rain hammered against the high windows of the monarchs' private sitting room. And a sitting room it was indeed, Susan had not moved from her spot on the small couch by the bright fire for the entire morning, and Lucy had spent most of it gazing sullenly out into the rain from the plush window seat, trying to catch a glimpse of her two errant brothers.

The boys had, for reasons best known to themselves, decided that a wild gallop across the moors in the middle of a raging storm was an appropriate thing to do early in the morning, and had yet to return. Susan maintained that they would be regretting it deeply when they arrived back, but Lucy doubted that. There was nothing that her brothers enjoyed more than shirking their kingly duties for a day and spending it doing crazy things with only one another for company.

Lucy jumped and was jerked abruptly from her thoughts when the large, heavy wooden door crashed open, revealing her two older brothers, both of whom were far beyond soaked and were already standing in a small puddle.

"Morning, girls!"

Peter strode in, seeming to glow with life as he grinned broadly at them from under slick strands of his rain-darkened fringe. Edmund followed closely, pale cheeks flushed and radiating exhilaration.

Lucy bounced off her perch and went to hug them, before catching herself and pulling back. Edmund shot her a damp grin, clothes plastered to his lean body, and opened his arms welcomingly.

"Sure you don't want a hug, Lu?"

She shook her head vehemently, but a little giggle bubbled up anyway.

Peter crept stealthily over to the back of the couch where Susan was sitting, having peacefully returned to devouring her embroidery book, and swooped down suddenly to plant a sloppy, wet kiss on her cheek.

"PETER PEVENSIE!"

Susan let out a screech and twisted around to smack him lightly with her book. Once she was satisfied that he had been suitably punished, she began to turn back to reading it, but the dark spots of moisture now marring the pattern on her shoulder caught her eye.

"Look at what you did! This material takes hours to dry out!"

He just laughed warmly and dashed around to her side of the couch, a wicked grin curling over his mouth.

"Oh, does it now, Susie?"

In one swift movement he had scooped her out of her seat and into his arms, cuddling her close and rubbing rainwater into her dress wherever he could. Susan gave a piercing shriek and tried to twist and writhe away from him-but Peter was both bigger and stronger than she, and soon they had collapsed in a wet heap on the carpet, ringing laughter rolling through the room. They wound up sitting heavily on the floor, Susan pulled close to Peter with her back pressed hard against his damp chest.

Susan heaved a mock-sigh and blew an errant strand of elegantly curled hair from over her face.

"My dress is_ ruined_ now."

Lucy gave a cheeky smile.

"Oh, do stop moaning, Su. You've got about a hundred others in your dressing room."

Edmund watched Lucy with a sly smirk slinking across his face.

"Lu, aren't you feeling left out?"

"Left out of what?"

"Well-you're the only dry one left!"

With a gleeful cackle, Edmund leapt over the low table separating them as Lucy darted away, squealing. Peter and Susan sat on the floor in a moist patch, laughing as they watched Edmund chase Lucy in clumsy circles as she shrieked and giggled hysterically. Eventually, he snatched at her waist, but misjudged and they both went tumbling into the elder two.

Lucy sat happily on top of her soaked, mirthful pile of siblings and smiled delightedly. Perhaps rainy days weren't so bad after all.

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><p><strong>AN:** That...wins the dubious honour of being my worst chapter ending to date. I wasn't sure quite what to do with them. I reckon Peter is probably up next. He's feeling neglected.

Please review, I'd love to know what you think!


	5. Peter: Oblivion

**A/N: **Finally! I'm sorry this has taken me so long to update, Peter wasn't cooperating with me. So, here is some more angst...it's another quite intense one.

This was inspired by a folk song, Down In Yon Forest, the two relevant verses of which are written below. It fits in very nicely with Narnia. There are many different versions of it, and you are unlikely to find them both in the same version, but they both apply, so there they are.

Please, please review-they make amazing birthday presents ;) I'd really love to know what you think!

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><p><em>A knight there lies upon a bed,<br>The bells of paradise, I heard them ring,  
>All scarlet the cover's let over it spread<br>And I love my Lord Jesus above anything._

_And in that bed there lies the knight,  
>The bells of paradise, I heard them ring,<br>Whose wounds they do bleed by day and by night,  
>And I love my Lord Jesus above anything.<em>

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><p>He doesn't know how long he's been here.<p>

Maybe for seconds. Maybe for days, months, decades. Maybe he's been here forever.

Sometimes he swims close to the surface of clarity, and sees darling Lucy's tear-streaked face in a blurred halo of candle light, or hears Susan's lovely voice crooning out lilting lullabies, or feels dear Edmund's shaking hand smoothing his damp hair.

He relives every battle he's ever fought in hot, fevered dreams. They twist into a thousand terrible outcomes, each more horrific than the last. He sees his castle fall, watches the Cair crumble and groan and collapse around his ears, as some faceless enemy bombards her mercilessly with rubble and cannonballs. He sees his precious baby sister sprawled on the marble floor of the throne room, eyes wide and staring, blood pulsing from her slit throat across the sparkling floor. He sees his other beautiful sister crumpled at the base of a high tower, white limbs twisted inhumanly, red blood trickling over her red lips. And his little brother dies in his dreams a hundred grotesque ways, until Peter's parched throat is raw from screaming his name.

He cannot remember a world outside of this room, nor a time when he did not lie in a hazy, feverish oblivion, in sweat soaked sheets, in a room that is both hotter than the deserts of Calormen and colder than the Witch's winter. His skin glistens with moisture, his breaths are gasping, one moment he is shivering violently with a bone-deep chill, the next his skin is on fire.

Sometimes he wanders through his castle when it is old and gray and hung with cobwebs instead of tapestries and damp instead of murals. Everything is covered with a blanket of age, but he dreads reaching the throne room, for it is there that the horror of this hallucination lies. His three younger siblings sit lifeless in their thrones, their eyes utterly blank, frozen into stone. They are trapped, ironically, in a senseless oblivion. And he hears the whispers of guilt twist into his ears that this is all his fault, because he could not protect them, because he is not strong enough, not good enough, and he falls to his knees before them and cries out because all he wants is for it to stop.

The wound had been for Edmund, this time, and he tears himself up with guilt. He does not leave Peter's bedside. There is no hunger or thirst or weariness that will conquer his loyalty, for it is stronger than the rocks on which Cair Paravel is built. If he is being unreasonable, then he doesn't care, not at all. He is there always to slide water between Peter's cracked lips, to bathe his burning brow, to chase away the nightmares.

Susan has built a solid wall of calmness and efficiency around herself, but inside she is screaming because if she loses her big brother, who will she have to turn to? All Narnia will rest on her shoulders and they are neither as broad nor as strong as Peter's. She doesn't think she could bear being the oldest sibling. In the darkest time of the night she lights a solitary candle and drifts across the corridor to Peter's chamber, to where she finds both her brothers, one tossing and turning and rambling deliriously, the other curled in a chair at his side, the forces of exhaustion finally having overcome him. She drapes a blanket gently over the younger, and then wrings out a damp cloth and hushes their eldest, murmuring sweet, calming things into his ear or singing ancient lullabies and nursing him when Edmund cannot.

Lucy exists in a constant state of muted terror. The castle is quiet without her laughter ringing through the halls. Now she kneels, her face turned out to the eastern sea, and prays to Aslan and his Father and begs and pleads for her brother's life. She cries in great wrenching sobs because she cannot make him better as she is used to, and she fears nothing more than losing her strongest anchor. In the dark, when she hears the doors and footsteps down the corridor, she waits awhile, then slips out of bed and pads tentatively out of her chamber. She swings Peter's door open and there, sure enough, are her three older siblings. Susan looks up from tending Peter and gives an empty reprimand for being out of bed so late, but really, she is glad of the company. The nights are their time to suffer alone together, because in the morning the room will be so full of Healers and Physicians and Doctors and practitioners of the medical arts that they will barely be able to see their brother.

And as the dawn comes she will slip out onto Peter's balcony, and kneel before the rising sun, and hope that Aslan can hear her prayers. Susan comes out to kneel next to her, and takes her hand, and joins in the silent pleas. When he awakes, Edmund presses a kiss to Peter's forehead and then staggers out to join them, dropping to his knees on Lucy's other side and taking her other hand, and together they pray for Peter.

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><p><strong>AN: **Poor Peter :( I do seem to bang him up a lot in my stories... I promise I'll leave him alone for a while now :) Susan's up next, I think.

Please, please, please review-I'd love to know what you thought.


	6. Susan: Vigil

**A/N: **Here is Susan's next chapter! There will be some Peter and Edmund stuff up next though, promise. I'm quite intrigued by the relationship between Peter and Susan-although Lucy and Edmund are the younger siblings, she is his little sister too. It kind of links in with Ch3.

Please review, I'd really love to know what you think of this.

Also, if anyone has any requests or suggestions, I'd love to hear them :)

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><p>She has always thought that the women who waited were fools.<p>

She has never liked to hear of the princesses who waited high in their towers for their gallant princes to come for them and sweep them off their feet. She has always sneered at the fanciful illustrations of lifetimes spent in anticipation, holding out, forever if necessary, for that one man who would come and make everything alright. She did not believe that a sensible woman would sit around her whole life waiting for just one man.

But though she prides herself on being sensible, she thinks now that she understands them, a little.

For though she is not a princess, and the man she waits for is not a prince, she will sit in her tower and await his return until the stars fall. Though he is gallant in great measure, and he may sweep her off her feet into his arms and spin her around until she is too dizzy and laughs and weeps for joy and begs for mercy, but not in the interest of making her fall in love with him (though she loves him dearly), she will watch for him until the waters rise and flood the land, and even then will she sit high in her tower and wait.

She is being hypocritical in more ways than one.

Edmund was the most difficult, as she expected. How he had fought her, pushing her hands away, stinging words flying. They had rowed bitterly over his right to wait for _just ten more minutes _at the window of their private sitting room that looked down over the castle entrance and pray for their eldest to return safely. There is nothing he loathes more than being left behind, but it couldn't be helped, not this time.

But she is determined, and he should have been in bed an hour ago anyway, so she keeps on at him until she has torn down all of his bluster and protests. When he finally opens up to her, and the tears come and he is laid bare in all his vulnerability before her, she takes him in her arms and helps him up to bed. She makes him up a sleeping draught (he finds no natural rest in these dark days) and sees him lying there, hollow and exhausted, and in her heart she begs Aslan all the harder to send their big brother home, because as the months of his absence stretch on they all start to fall apart, bit by bit. Then she slips a slumber-inducing drug between his lips and he goes limp in her arms. She lays him down with a mother's gentleness and kisses his dark hair, and blows out the last candle.

Lucy is easier, better soothed by lullabies and assurances of faith in Aslan's protection. She winds long braids into the honey-coloured hair, and when the time comes for sleep she will sit with her little sister and stroke her cheeks and pray that tonight there will be no tears. She takes her leave with promises that she will go to bed herself right after she has dealt with Edmund.

She never does.

She thinks perhaps she is being unfair, that she denies her younger siblings the chance to sit up and wait for him while she indulges in it herself. As all Narnia save the night-watch sleep, she climbs the endless staircase to the top of the tallest tower of Cair Paravel, and sits at the window there and gazes out across her moonlit land. As the nights drag on long past the date he was due to return home, she begins to wonder how she will explain the near-completed tapestry on a loom in the High Tower to the siblings who she had sent to bed on the promise that she would do likewise soon.

In the mornings, she awakes stiff and cold, draped over the window sill, long hair blowing in the wind outside-the windows of the tallest towers have no glass, for the archers' benefit. She will stumble down the winding staircase and change quickly, painting a bright smile on her face to rouse her siblings. This is their endless pattern, their ritual for weeks since his return was promised and he never came.

Until the night when she is awoken before the dawn, by the clattering of hooves and the ringing of armour and the voices of men. She hangs out of the window, the better to see, and gladness pours into her heart as she watches lines and lines of weary soldiers drag themselves into the courtyard of the castle. She searches frantically among the crowd of scarlet, and then she catches sight of him, filthy and exhausted but blessedly _alive._

She turns quickly and dashes out of the door, flinging herself down the spiral staircase, tripping more than once, then she pulls up her skirts and flies through endless corridors, which have never seemed so long. Wild relief swells in her chest as she reaches the vast doors at the entrance to the castle and throws them open, drawing the attention of the crowd of soldiers. She pays no heed, her eyes fixed on but one of their number as she patters quickly down the steps to the courtyard, skirts flapping around her legs. He turns in time to catch her as she flings herself into his arms, and hears his helmet drop from his fingers with a clatter. He hisses slightly at the impact, but returns her embrace just as fiercely. The cold plates of his armour press almost painfully into her soft body, but she doesn't care at all, and though she has rarely seen him looking worse-hair damp and matted and getting a little too long, skin caked with dirt and dry blood, lips cracked, eyes sunken, and there is a thin red slice down his cheekbone that she thinks will probably scar-there is no other sight she would rather have seen. She buries her face in his neck and presses kisses to the warm flesh there, not caring if it will make her dirty, too. She feels small and a little fragile, engulfed in his embrace with the bulk of his armour adding to his already impressive stature, but she cuddles closer to him, savouring these rare moments as his little sister.

And as she hears two joyful cries from the doorway, and two more sets of feet hurry down the steps, and the castle comes to life to welcome the returning troops, and she feels him drop a tender kiss into her hair before she moves away to allow their younger siblings to tackle him, she thinks that perhaps she understands why the women in fairytales wait forever for their princes.

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><p><strong>AN:** So that's Susan! Peter and Edmund fluff and angst up next, methinks ;)

Please, please, please review-I'd love to hear any constructive criticism you may have, or your thoughts on this. Reviews help me write faster :)


	7. Tumnus: The Perils Of Afternoon Tea

**A/N:** Ok, I know I said fluff and angst, but this one would not let me go until I wrote it, and the angsty ones were not coming easily. So, this is my humble offering of possibly-hopefully-slightly humorous silliness. Oh, there will be angst. In...coming chapters...the boys weren't working with me this week. Hopefully they'll behave a little better next week. This is a little diversion of POV for you, but it's mostly third person.

Please review, I'd love to know your thoughts!

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><p>"More tea, Mrs Beaver?"<p>

The amicable question came from Mr Tumnus, who was brandishing an excessively floral teapot. He, along with Mr and Mrs Beaver, had been invited up to the monarchs' private parlour to partake in afternoon tea and polite conversation with the two Queens. It was a glorious day, and the pale, early spring sunlight that still seemed to cling to winter glistened deliciously over warm, fragrant drinks and a spectacular array of cakes and scones. Mr Tumnus was enjoying himself immensely. He had already sampled five of the tastiest products of the royal kitchens, and was just eyeing a sixth over his teapot when the finely carved wooden door was flung open with an almighty crash.

The little party froze comically as the two renowned Warrior Kings tumbled into the room, sweaty and disheveled and clad in absolutely nothing but their underwear. They turned simultaneously and slammed the heavy door shut behind them with enough force to rattle the tea set, and leaned their whole weight against it, panting.

Queen Susan's mouth dropped open in a perfect expression of utter horror, her empty teacup slipping from her fingers and rolling onto the carpeted floor. Queen Lucy, whose small fork was still clamped between her lips in the act of consuming a particularly delectable piece of cake, began to choke on giggles. Mr Tumnus, who had just started to pour Mrs Beaver her promised cup of tea, stared wide-eyed at his somewhat exposed sovereigns, continuing to pour into her cup as it overflowed and the tablecloth began to turn brown.

An ominously patient voice that the assembled group collectively recognised as Oreius, the formidable centaur general, drifted under the door into the room.

"You are only delaying the inevitable, Your Majesties. You must complete your training eventually."

The room listened in dead silence as the sounds of his hoof-steps echoed away down the corridor. The two boys slumped heavily together in relief.

Edmund blew out a long breath. "Got away with it."

Peter gave a low hum of agreement from the back of his throat. "For now. But he's sure to-"

Susan gave a delicate, embarrassed cough. Edmund's eyes snapped open at the sound, then widened as his face coloured rapidly.

"-come after us later, Ed, we can't-"

"Peter."

"-afford to hang around anywhere, or else-"

"_Peter!"_

"What, Edmund?" He lifted his head to glare at his younger brother, but was swiftly distracted by the mortified set of guests and five shocked gazes trained on himself and Edmund. He too flushed fiercely, and then, seeing the thunderous look brewing on Susan's face, quickly gave an apologetic, ingratiating smile.

"Awfully sorry for interrupting. The cake is good, I hope?"

Edmund rolled his eyes and pressed his ear against the door. Noticing this, Peter turned his attention to him.

"Do you think it's safe to make a run for it?"

Edmund contemplated this, listening carefully. "No, I don't think so. I'd bet anything that he's waiting for us just around the corner. Best...leave it a few minutes..."

He shot a nervous glance towards the little table, folding his arms self-consciously across his chest and shifting a little closer to Peter. If it had been just his sisters, he wouldn't have minded, but Susan was looking murderous and the three guests just wouldn't stop _staring._

"Suppose we surrendered, Ed? I mean, of course, it'll be awful, but it's such a bother being chased around the castle like this."

"Surrender? Are you mad?" Edmund hissed furiously at his older brother, embarrassment forgotten. "Pete, we'll have our...masculinity frozen off!"

Peter winced at Edmund's word choice as Susan managed an enraged squeak of mortification, and Lucy clapped a hand over her mouth to stem her laughter.

"But Ed-" Peter persisted, increasingly conscious of the possibility of Susan doing them both some hefty damage with the cake-slicing knife, "It's Oreius we're talking about. He's nothing if not perseverant. We're going to have to spend the rest of our lives hiding from him, and I really need to sign those papers in my study."

Edmund glowered up at him, the presence of his sisters and friends seemingly forgotten.

"Peter, why precisely does Oreius want us to do this exercise?"

"Because he says we must be prepared for any eventuality," Peter replied miserably.

"Exactly. And in what possible circumstances would we ever remotely desire to swim across a river in early spring completely starkers?"

Lucy promptly lost control of herself and began to cackle hysterically.

"_Ed!" _Peter snapped, aiming a light swipe at his brother's head, which he ducked, "We have company!"

Edmund looked around the sunlit room, rediscovering the presence of the guests. "Oh...so we do..." he remarked faintly.

Both boys jumped as Susan abruptly pushed back her chair with a harsh scrape. "_Right,"_ she fumed, marching over to her brothers. "So that's what this is all about? You're hiding from Oreius because you're too scared to swim across a river naked?"

The boys both puffed up at this affront to their courage and the implication of cowardice.

"We're not hiding!" Peter protested immediately.

"Of course not!" agreed Edmund emphatically. "We just...failed to see how it would...advance our training."

Peter nodded vehemently.

Susan pursed her lips and folded her arms, a disconcertingly crafty glint entering her eyes.

"Well, I would of course have understood if you'd said you were trying to avoid swimming in the river, especially in these temperatures. I know I wouldn't want to."

The boys shot each other bewildered looks, with just a glimmer of hope. Perhaps they could make Susan understand, and possibly reduce the severity of their impending punishment.

"But as you so clearly expressed such a complete lack of fear, then I can only assume that you chose to charge into my tea party in your underwear for your own amusement."

The moment the boys realised their mistake, they exchanged a terrified glance and began to edge towards the door, but Susan swiftly caught them both by the ears in a painfully tight grip.

"Down to the river with you two, I think. Seeing as you're not _remotely_ worried about swimming across it, especially not about all the melted ice..."

Susan continued to threaten them as they were marched out of the parlour, and presumably, all the way to the river.

Lucy, once she had recovered herself from her giggling fit, bestowed a glowing grin on her bemused guests. "How about some more tea, Mr Tumnus?"

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><p><strong>AN: **So that was my little bit of weirdness for you all. I think I'll leave precisely how that one resolved itself to you, but I think it's safe to say Susan let them keep their underwear on.

Please review, I'd love to know what you thought! And also, if anyone has any suggestions or requests, I'd love to hear them :)


	8. Edmund: Rift

**A/N: **Back to angst! Sorry if it was a little later than usual. Sadly, school has started up again-believe me, if I could sit at my desk and write all day, then I would.

This is for WillowDryad, since she requested it: **Write one where Peter and Edmund argue and make up.** Or something along those lines...

So, here is my offering to that end. Please, please review!

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><p>It was so horribly like they had been before.<p>

It doesn't matter what they argue about, what starts it. Before long they fall back into their old routine, old insults, old hurts. In the end, it's always the old barbs that they dig up and fling at one another, sometimes alongside fists or books or chessmen or anything else to hand. It's always the old scars that they search out and plunge fresh blades into, and watch one another bleed. The same issues raised, hauled raw to the surface, over and over and over again. Self-righteous, reckless, idiot, overbearing, irritant, the list goes on.

But not traitor.

Never traitor.

Even in their blackest moments, when he has hurt his brother every way he knows how, Peter never turns to that one word that would break him utterly. And in those moments, Edmund hates Peter for that, because he has sunk as low as he can go and he cannot drag Peter to the bottom alongside him. Even when he screams at him to just say it, and his heart twists agonisingly because deep inside he still believes it to be true, and he thinks that perhaps he deserves to be abhorred.

It is on days like this, rare as they are, that he feels as though the years of hurt that have festered between them are all they've ever had, and every good thing that they've seen or felt or known about each other is erased in a heartbeat, wiped out among acid words and burning memories. Those that wrench up old, bitter wounds and make the hate between them seem almost real.

He is sixteen when he finds a new blade with which to make his brother bleed. It is forged in the fiery throes of a blazing row, and he is so angry that he can't remember how to reason anymore because he is already cut and bruised and hurting from Peter's stinging words, and Peter is not much better, his own tongue is as sharp as a whip-crack and he sees the lashes raw, bleeding fresh on his brother's skin. And before he knows what he is doing he's spitting poison, thoughts that had only crept through his mind in the darkest time of the night suddenly taking voice and flying from him before he can censor them and just for a moment he's the little boy who sold his siblings for sweets on the promise of power.

Abruptly he finds that his mouth is empty, every small bitterness poured out in a wave of rage. He chokes on nothing, and already he would give anything to pull it back, to cover Peter's ears and protect him from it, because he has suddenly remembered that Peter is extraordinarily sensitive about his family and half of the things he said aren't even true anymore.

He watches as Peter staggers back, bewildered. His expression is excruciating for Edmund, filled with such undiluted hurt that it cripples his stream of apologies. For less than a second Peter is shocked into dropping his guard, a terrible vulnerability shining through, and Edmund feels the full weight of what he has done slam into his chest. Words crowd his throat, but he does not know what he can possibly say to erase the scars and soothe the pain. He cannot move, paralysed with horror at himself, as Peter turns and leaves, leaving him alone in a frowning room, with crimson stains on the floor. No wounds bleed quite so much as those inflicted by words.

It is only in the quiet aftermath that he realises that he has broken his big brother's heart, shredded it, torn it out and stamped on it, shattered it into a thousand pieces as only he can.

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><p>Edmund knows that he absolutely not worthy of being here, but here he stands. Peter's bedchamber is fogged with darkness, but as he waits at the side of the Magnificent's four-poster, night has not left them sightless and they can see one another's faces with unnatural clarity. Cold pinches at his skin through his thin night shirt.<p>

He will stand here until dawn if he has to.

He huddles in on himself to keep the biting chill out-the fires had died many hours ago-and hesitantly raises his eyes to his brother's, reminded of a sun-drenched day six years ago when he stood before his siblings wearing an identical expression, lip split and cheek bruised, delivered to them by Aslan. This time, he must fix the damage himself. He almost flinches at the impassiveness in Peter's face, but steels himself and locks their gazes. In one swift move he tears down all of the walls behind his own eyes and lets his brother see into his soul.

They watch one another carefully for an eternity. Edmund can only hope that this time he has not gone too far. Peter's searing blue eyes bore into him relentlessly, and he forces himself to stay upright and keep his face open, instead of flushing in shame and letting the tears come, as he burns to do.

Suddenly, something in Peter gives way ever so slightly, and he shifts over in bed, turning his covers down for Edmund to scramble shakily in so that they sit side by side. Usually, at this point, nothing more needs to be said. Usually, here he knows that he is forgiven. But this is not usually.

"I'm sorry."

He hates to hear how his voice cracks weakly.

"I know."

Edmund dares to glance sideways at his brother.

"I am, too."

His voice caresses the dark. Every tiny part of him is golden and glorious, and Edmund can only pray that one so unworthy as he might be allowed to bask in that light for just a little while longer.

"You don't need to-"

He is completely silenced by the lightest touch to his lips.

"Hush, Eddie. Just hush."

They sit together for a heartbeat more, the air between them tense and taut. He isn't sure which of them moves first, but it doesn't matter, because suddenly he finds himself sobbing unreservedly into Peter's shoulder, clinging to him, smearing first his night-shirt, then the skin beneath with tears as he aches with remorse. He thinks that perhaps it isn't fair that he is seeking comfort from the wounded, but he needs this, and so does Peter.

Wrapped up in his brother's arms, his sobs begin to calm a little, until they are shuddering gasps that wrack his slender frame. Peter leans back against his pillows and cradles Edmund to his chest, and it sets his soul at ease when he can hear Peter's pulse in his ears, and match it with his own. He sinks into the heat of his brother's body, feels the warmth of life in his flesh.

He will stay here tonight.

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><p><strong>AN: **Thanks for reading!

Please review-I'd love to know any thoughts or feedback you may have. And, as always, I'm open to requests :D


	9. Peter: Pursuit

**A/N: **I apologise profusely for how late this is! I've started work on another fic at the same time, and what with schoolwork as well... Still, Heartbeats is meant to be updated when inspiration strikes. I'm not entirely happy with this chapter-but anyway, here it is.

This chapter was also a request from WillowDryad-**Write one where they are running away from a Fell Beast, and one of them is injured. And they have no weapons.** Or something along those lines, so here is what I came up with.

Please review, they are much appreciated :)

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><p>His own thudding heartbeat pounds in his ears. Adrenaline rushes through his veins. Every muscle in his body is tight with primal fear. This is different, he is not used to this. Most of the time, he stands mighty and victorious on the battlefield, the ultimate predator, the thrill of battle singing in his blood. But this is not a battlefield, and as a gruesome figure lumbers tall from the murky undergrowth and lets out a terrible roar on acrid breath, there is no shadow of doubt that today he is the hunted. He has to flee, but he's spent so long standing his ground against impossible odds that he's almost forgotten how to turn and run.<p>

But running he is, with speed and stamina he had not known he possessed. The forest floor flies past beneath him and a chill prickles down his spine as enraged screeching grates through his head, echoing through the forest, driving them on. He is sharply aware of Edmund hurtling along at his side, his brother's panting breaths loud in his ears. They are both strong, but Edmund cannot run forever and neither can he. Peter's sky-blue gaze darts sideways, making a lightening quick assessment of Edmund's remaining strength. It's a skill that Oreius has hammered into them both. His breathing is turning ragged and gasping. He will not hold out much longer.

With a startled cry that sends a stab of terror into Peter's heart, Edmund drops suddenly, crashing heavily to the ground. A sickening crack splits the air. Peter tears back to him, knife already drawn from his belt. He skids to his knees beside his fallen brother and hacks away the vines twisted around his calves. He expects Edmund to blink up at him, to grasp his hand and let Peter haul him to his feet, but he doesn't move. The monster is thundering through the forest towards them, so close now that he can see Rhindon's hilt glittering in the beast's shoulder where he had buried it earlier. He grabs Edmund's shoulder urgently.

"Ed!"

But Edmund's body has gone slack. Peter swallows hard and turns his face gently towards him, feeling nausea grip his stomach as his fingers come away dripping red from the angry gash on his little brother's temple.

Every rational thought flies from Peter's head, washed away in the flood of hazy fury and a raw, animal need not to survive, but to protect. The hulking mound of scarred, gnarled flesh is bearing down on them, snarling, salivating, anticipating two young Kings as its next meal. Before Peter really knows what he is doing, he has slung Edmund's limp form over his shoulder with that easy strength that only really comes to him when his family is threatened, stumbled slightly, and sprinted on through the forest, sweat shining on his skin and sticking his tunic to his back.

But he knows in his heart that this is not enough. He is tired, and Edmund is heavy, and they are not travelling fast enough to outrun the beast for any real distance. What a dishonourable end for two great Warrior Kings, torn to pieces and eaten after being caught by a ravenous Fell Beast on a hunting trip in the forest.

A fresh wave of adrenaline courses into his blood and he suddenly spies-_thank_ _Aslan_-a rocky ledge that will have to do for shelter. He rushes for it, lungs and muscles burning with exertion. He dives quickly underneath into the mossy darkness, laying Edmund down as softly as he can despite his shaking hands. His fingers tremulously probe the damage-the cut is messy, but hopefully not too severe.

"Edmund?"

He tears a small piece of material from his sleeve, and winces at the noise of the ripping. Folding it into a wad of cloth, he wipes the blood gently from Edmund's cheek and then presses it lightly to the wound. Fierce frustration suddenly grips him-he is not used to feeling so small and useless.

He freezes abruptly as dirt begins to shake rhythmically from the ceiling of the overhang, and the rank smell of rotting meat suddenly invades the small space. A rough grunting sounds outside of their shelter and fear clenches his innards, an ice cold terror with the realisation that they could die here, today. Now. He gathers Edmund protectively into his arms, curling his body around him. Any beast that wishes to devour his little brother will first have to tear through him. He mutters a quick, desperate prayer to Aslan. Is this where they will die, under this dank rocky overhang? He grips Edmund so tightly that his knuckles go white, allowing himself to take comfort in his brother's heartbeat, pressed against his own chest. Not yet, he thinks. They are not dead yet.

A black shadow falls across them, and a hungry snuffling ruffles the air around the overhang. Peter's breath is unbearably loud in his ears. But then another sound comes-a low, weak moan into his shirt. Dizzy relief floods through him, but he quickly claps his hand over Edmund's mouth, feeling eyelashes begin to flutter against his neck. He senses the moment Edmund jerks into awareness and his sinewy muscles tense in Peter's hold-a soldier's reaction to awakening in another's grip-but Peter turns his head swiftly before he can start to struggle and breathes the very softest _shhh _into the dark hair. His little brother relaxes instantly into his embrace.

His heart pounds in his throat and he feels Edmund's warm, carefully controlled breathing drifting over his neck. Edmund has wound a hand tightly into his shirt and all Peter can think of is how very small he seems, as small as the day he had lain on a battlefield in early spring, his life-blood soaking into the Narnian earth, before either of them were men or Kings.

The beast has spotted them, and it lets out a gleeful roar of triumph, one beady black eye gleaming in at them. Its jaws snap greedily, thick, shining ropes of saliva dangling from its mouth. Peter squeezes his eyes shut, resigning himself to die, and pulls Edmund so tightly to him that it hurts, but neither care.

An almighty roar rolls suddenly through the forest, deep and rumbling. The roar of a Lion. The beast is distracted, suddenly nervous. It glances skittishly around, surveying the forest for a predator greater even than itself, and then turns tail and flees through the trees. It is not willing to risk a fight over two small but tough, muscled morsels.

Neither move for what seems like hours. Peter sits perfectly still, curled around Edmund, deliriously happy that they are both alive and he can still feel his little brother's heartbeat under his warm skin. They don't know how many minutes have passed when Peter lowers his hand gently from Edmund's mouth and they both begin to breathe properly again. Edmund lifts his head slowly from Peter's shoulder, catching his hand and drawing it back to his lips to press a kiss to the place where he can feel Peter's pulse pounding. Then both are laughing and crying with heady relief, and they thank Aslan for each other's lives.

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><p><strong>AN: **Peter got Rhindon back some time later, when they returned with reinforcements and killed said Fell Beast. It wasn't in the greatest condition-but the Dwarfs soon had it back to its best.

Thanks for reading, please review!


	10. Lucy: Envy

**A/N: **Woot! Heartbeats has reached ten chapters! Lucy and Susan were feeling neglected, what with all the action with the boys. This one has been in my head for a while, and I finally got it written down. I'm on my Easter break now, so there should be a little more time for writing!

Please, please review-they are very much appreciated :)

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><p>"Edmund?"<p>

Lucy and her immediate older sibling were stood together on the outskirts of a laughing, swirling ring of dancers. Couples spun past in blazes of colour. Never before had she seen the ballroom so packed-they had invited dignitaries from every realm friendly with Narnia to the largest ball that had ever been held at Cair Paravel.

"Hmm?"

Her brother surveyed the dancers coolly, sipping his wine, but Lucy could tell that he was secretly enjoying himself.

"Do you ever get jealous of Peter?"

Edmund glanced at her in surprise, then looked to the middle of the crowd, where Peter was whirling Susan gracefully across the floor. It had been extremely difficult to persuade either of the boys to learn to dance properly, but surprisingly, it had been Oreius who had convinced them in the end. 'Swordplay is a dance, Majesties,' he had said. 'If you cannot master ballroom dancing, then you will never master swordplay.' Both had gone on to become very accomplished dancers, even beginning to enjoy it as they got older.

Edmund contemplated this for several long moments, then a beautifully peaceful smile dawned on his face.

"No," he replied quietly. "Not really. Not anymore."

Lucy sighed, and shifted uncomfortably. She had lost the one person she thought she might be able to relate to on jealousy of older siblings. It was not Susan's beauty that she envied, really-it was the attention lavished on her for it. Lucy knew that Susan would hate it if she knew she sometimes made her feel inadequate, but it was inevitable. Lines and lines of young lords, princes, dukes, marquises, counts and knights, and often those not quite so young, would come to gape at the beauty of Susan the Gentle, and their gazes would pass straight over the Valiant Queen. Exotic gifts would pour in from distant lands, and poems and songs would be written to laud Susan's legendary beauty. Suit after suit would be sent to her, each firmly refused.

She watched as a large, red-faced Galmian tapped Peter on the shoulder, interrupting a complex pattern of footwork that he had been executing perfectly with Susan to the appreciation of those watching nearby, and made motions towards taking her for the rest of the dance. Peter's eyes narrowed slightly-Lucy knew how he disliked being interrupted mid-measure, particularly by men who so clearly had a romantic interest in his sister. But nevertheless, he stepped back, ever courteous, and allowed him to begin clumsily spinning Susan across the floor, a little out of time. Susan tried not to wince as he trod heavily on her dainty feet, but couldn't resist an exasperated look over his shoulder at Peter, who had been quickly snapped up by the youngest princess of Terebinthia, who was completely besotted with him.

How nice, Lucy thought bitterly, to have so many suitors that you can treat them with such disdain. But she mustn't think that way-it was not Susan's fault. She had always been the beauty of the family.

She glanced up again and was surprised to find Edmund watching her closely, dark eyes unreadable. She flushed as she realised that he _knew-_she had given herself away. Guilt flooded her. It was not, she knew, how Aslan would have wanted her to feel, and certainly not how any of her siblings or subjects would have. She felt silly and petty under her brother's dark gaze.

"Do you know why I'm not jealous of Peter?"

She swallowed hard against the tears of shame that welled up hot in her eyes, and gave a little shake of her head. It was not fitting to cry at a royal ball.

"Because I know now that we balance each other well-all four of us, that's why Aslan chose us. Peter has his areas of weakness, and more often than not, they are my areas of strength. And vice versa-where I am weak, he is strong. Each of us brings our own qualities and values to the rule of Narnia, and to our family. Aslan chose us because we are all equally special, in four different ways. So we should not wish to be anything that we are not, because we were chosen for what we already are."

Lucy gave a wet chuckle. "When did you get so wise?"

Edmund shrugged, grinning, but before he could reply, Lucy grabbed him in a tight hug.

"Thanks, Ed," She whispered.

"Anytime, Lu."

Yes, poems and songs were written for Susan's beauty, but were they not also written for her own bravery and faith and joy? Susan had many suitors, but it was not as if she'd never had any of her own. And though Susan received countless amorous gifts, Lucy did not think there was any gift greater than the thankful smile of a soldier snatched back from the void by her healing cordial as he blinked in the light of the sun he thought he'd never see again.

"See? You're just as beautiful as Su, Lucy. In your own way."

Lucy smiled brightly as Edmund set his empty glass on the tray of a passing Dwarf attendant and turned to her, a joyful gleam in his eyes.

"Care to dance, sister dear?"

"I'd love to!" she giggled and took his proffered hand.

Edmund pulled her close to him and together they plunged into the colourful mass of dancers. He waltzed her smartly over to Susan, who had been happily reunited with Peter, her toes having received more than their fair share of bruising for the night. The four of them exchanged brilliant smiles, all envy forgotten, and danced on into the night.

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><p><strong>AN:** Hope you enjoyed that! It's a little more light hearted than the other recent ones. Reviews inspire me to keep writing and I'd love to know what you thought :)


	11. Oreius: Duty

**A/N: **This is a request from LadyAlambielKnightOfNarnia to do something Oreius-and-the-boys centric, and is therefore for her due to the wonderful inspiration. I was going to do a funny one, but then this just came to me, even more angst!

I hope you enjoy it, please review :)

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><p>"Oreius!"<p>

It is a bleak day indeed. Dull gray clouds have marched across the sky and he thinks that it will probably rain soon. Almost automatically, he wills it not to. Rain is no good in war. It turns a battlefield into a slippery, treacherous pool of muck, where his soldiers must fight the mud almost as much as they must the enemy forces.

He turns to look at the colt King who has addressed him. He is tall, as Oreius expected he would be, and well built. Strong too, for a foal, and he can already tell that one day he will be a mighty swordsman. Some may argue that that day has already come, but Oreius knows better. There is potential in him yet. With his flaxen hair and summer blue eyes, he could almost pass as substitute for the sun that has today chosen to hide its face from the impending bloodshed. His countenance, however, is drawn in anxiety that ages him beyond his years. Today, he does not look like a foal.

"Sire?"

"The intelligence was wrong. There's double the force we expected amassed, maybe more."

The only sign of surprise he gives is a blink, and then his time-honoured mantra rolls forth.

"Numbers do-"

"-not win a battle, I know, Oreius. We continue as planned. Only, I wanted to ask you something."

Peter shifts uneasily on his feet and glances across the camp. Oreius follows his line of sight and sees the younger, darker foal King-Edmund-arguing hotly with a Dwarf over what seems to be an issue with his armour. He gets an ominous feeling that he knows where this is going. He has known them too long, he realises, and too well. They will bring him heartache when the charge is sounded, and there are few indeed who can lay that claim.

"If the battle goes ill, I want you to make it your prime responsibility to get Edmund out safely. Even if that means leaving me."

"Sire, I could never abandon you, it goes against everything I-"

Peter lifts a hand wearily, halting Oreius's flow of objections, forcing him to glower silently.

"Swear to me, Oreius, that you'll protect him. His safety is your main priority in this battle, even above mine."

He does not want to make this promise. Both of the colts are his charges to defend. He has never broken an oath nor doubted his own resolve, but if a moment came on the battlefield when he would have to leave his High King to die, let alone his student, fellow warrior and companion, he is not at all sure he would be able to do it. But he is sworn to serve the High King, and so promise he must.

"I swear it, Majesty," he concedes grudgingly.

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><p>The horn that signifies the retreat slices clearly through the mist of rain. Oreius dispatches the Minotaur opposite him with chilling efficiency as soldiers begin to fall back around him, sprinting towards safety, slipping in the mud. They are filthy, rain-soaked, mud-spattered, blood-caked. He has not seen his army in such a shambles for a long time, as they stagger desperately onwards. Dully, a series of possible training programmes flash though his mind before he notices King Edmund, still battling furiously on, and remembers his oath. He scans the battlefield for the High King. His searching gets wilder and more frantic as no tall, panting figure in silver and scarlet presents itself to him, but then his attention is snatched by an unearthly howl from the direction in which Edmund is stood. He twists to look, in time to see his golden King cut down, in time to see him crumple quietly to the ground with an enemy blade in his gut as his brother screams his name.<p>

Before he has realised quite what he is doing he is already halfway to his fallen King, broadsword out, resolving to have vengeance or death, rage clouding any of his usual cool reason, a red haze forming before his eyes. Hate surges in him, this enemy are not worthy to have the blood of the High King on their blades to boast of. But no matter how fast he gallops, he cannot seem to get there fast enough. Harsh, panting colt breaths, ragged with desperation, pull him slightly closer to his right mind, and he glances sideways to see King Edmund also tearing towards his brother, face smeared with blood and dirt and tears. A horrible awareness descends on him.

Every fibre of his being, every ounce of his honour and devotion to his King screams for him to continue his enraged charge and rain death upon those who would dare spill the blood of the High King. But he swore with his own blood to serve this very King to his last breath. And this King had made him promise to save his younger brother at any cost.

King Edmund is stumbling as swiftly as he can towards Peter still, eyes wild and stricken. Oreius knows that look. He has seen it countless times in the faces of soldiers who make their last furious charge for a cause they are glad to die for. He has seen it in King Peter's face, just before he does something particularly reckless to protect his siblings. Ordinarily, he would be happy to have Edmund fighting at his side, finding a fierce sort of companionship in knowing that they are allied in the utter destruction of those who have hurt someone they care for, but most of the soldiers have already retreated and the enemy are so many and King Peter made him promise. So he swerves, plucks King Edmund off the ground into his arms and whirls around, galloping for the line of safety, sick with guilt, leaving his honour shredded on the battlefield. He has turned his back on his King. Edmund struggles and writhes in his hold, shrieking like a madman, hacking and slashing with his sword until Oreius tears that from his grip also. Something within Oreius feels unbearably wrong. How can he ever show himself in court after this? How could he face the Queens and tell them that he left their brother for dead on the battlefield?

He finds the hot rush of grief and anger slightly overwhelming, unused to such forceful, uncontrolled emotion. He bites it back, swallowing roughly, determined to remain professional. He realises suddenly that King Edmund has gone disconcertingly limp in his hold. He slows slightly, looking uncertainly down at his charge to find a pair of eerily calm brown eyes gazing penetratingly into his own.

"Oreius, we must go back. I can't-I can't leave him. I just can't."

He tries to sound firm, but his voice cracks and had Oreius been weaker, he would have flinched at the depth of raw pain in his voice. He wavers. He wants nothing more than to turn back to King Peter and give everything down to the last dregs of strength in his body to defend him, but he swore an oath. Then a single broken word escapes the bundle in his arms.

"Please."

Oreius draws to a halt. He looks down at Edmund and Edmund looks up at him, and the image swims into his head of a quivering, bruised foal curled in his arms, dressed in the oddest clothes, torn apart by spite and the evil of the Witch, desperate for a glimpse of his family to know that they were at least alive. The foal is almost grown now, and he is heavy with armour and the weight of responsibility. There is nothing about him that has not changed, except the pleading look in those dark eyes. He realises with a jolt that regardless of whether he saves King Edmund's life, if he cannot save King Peter's also, then he will still lose two Kings this day.

Oreius twists and swings Edmund onto his back, returning his sword to his hands and drawing his own again. He tosses a hand signal over his shoulder at the herald, and hears a second charge blast behind them, sure and strong. He exchanges a grave look of understanding with King Edmund, who murmurs low in his ear,

"For Peter."

Then the world is right again as he charges back towards his fallen King, content in the knowledge that he will gladly die to defend him. For above all things, his duty is to protect his sovereigns.

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><p><strong>AN:** I'd love to know what you thought of my dabble into Oreius' POV! He's quite difficult to do, I find. Please review :)


	12. Oreius: DutyPart Two

**A/N:** I've been away from FF for some time with exams and suchlike, but I'm back again for the summer! I wasn't going to follow that last one up, but quite a few people wanted to know what became of the boys after the last chapter, so here it is. Enjoy!

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><p>In some small, rational part of his mind, Oreius can't help but wonder whether he is a murderer or a soldier.<p>

There was, some would argue, little difference. Others would say that there was a distance as wide as honour between the two, and honour as wide as a soldier's heart. Oreius had once heard it said that one was not a murderer unless one killed for hate, and it was to this that he adhered his principles. He did not hate the enemy, that would be unprofessional. They were an obstacle to his ultimate objective, be it freedom for himself or others, avenging another's death or the defence of his Kings and Queens. They were a blockage that required a little force for their necessary removal. He was a soldier, not a murderer. He was a cold administrator of death, a master in the art of killing. He did his duty.

Today is different.

Today he relishes the warm splatter of enemy blood across his flank, across his armour. His own blood rushes to the symphony of the battle, metal on metal, metal on skin and muscle and bone, pumping out of a wound on his hind leg. His fury is making him reckless. Ten yards behind him, King Edmund fights with the same savage exhilaration. He watches the young colt weave and duck around a goblin for a few moments, before quickly and neatly sliding his sword through its throat. It gargles on its blood and collapses choking to the floor, stilling as King Edmund snatches a small knife from its belt and flicks it through the air. It slices through the noise of battle and embeds itself in the eye of an Ogre that had been about to smash his monstrous club down onto King Peter's chest. He staggers back, roaring, gouging deep marks in his own face, trying to claw away his unexpected blindness.

Oreius spares half a moment to be proud of the dark colt King, and then turns to meet his next enemy.

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><p>Oreius wrenches his broadsword slippery and glistening with enemy blood from the back of a Hag who'd lain quivering in the mud, feigning death. The post-victory hush that has settled over the battlefield seems heavier than usual, and Oreius's ears are still ringing with the song of his sword. As it begins to fade, he makes out a low, desperate muttering behind him. King Edmund is knelt in the mud at his brother's side, his sword standing upright in the earth next to him, its point buried in the muck. Both of their finely crafted helmets have been cast to one side and Oreius can see the thin rivulet of red threading down King Peter's ashen cheek from his lips. The infantry soldiers keep glancing anxiously over at them as Edmund's murmurs become steadily more frantic. The pallor of Peter's face is stark against the bright, rich red of his blood.<p>

"Come on, Pete, stay with me. You'll be alright. You'll be alright. Please, just hang on. Just a bit longer. You'll be alright, you have to be..."

It continues in a desperate babble, half to his brother, half to himself. The victory had been narrowly and bloodily won, and if it had not been for the arrival of Queen Susan with another battalion of infantry soldiers and one of the archers' regiments, then the lot of them would easily have been massacred. By the time the reinforcements had arrived, the enemy had already penetrated back to the medical tents, defended by Queen Lucy and the military Healers. Oreius wonders briefly if the Queens have been informed of the condition of their eldest brother. They did not, of course, actually fight on the battlefield, and therefore would not be aware.

King Edmund's flow of comfort becomes suddenly raw and panicked, sobs catching in his throat and his words slurred in his hurry to choke them out. He is on his elbows in the dirt now, curled next to his brother, stroking back his hair which is dark with sweat, begging him not to leave. Oreius hears the sound that he dreads most from one of his Kings-the telltale bloody rattle of death in Peter's chest.

"Oh, Aslan, no! Please, please, don't take him, not yet-I can't-I can't-Don't let him leave me, Aslan, please-"

Edmund's cries become confused and stricken, and Oreius can tell that grief is blurring his thoughts. Something is burning in the pit of his stomach. He has failed. He charged back to save King Peter, but he couldn't do it, and now his life bleeds out into the cold mud of the battlefield, and along with it Edmund's mind. He has failed. He lost Peter, and so he will lose Edmund also. How often had he told them that their greatest asset was each other? His heart twists as Peter gasps in another painful, ragged breath, and Edmund's words finally explode into a broken howl, and the troops look on in fright.

A new sound splits the air-a high, female cry, and salvation flies across the battlefield in a stream of honey-coloured hair and flapping, forest green skirts with dark blood stains spilt down them. Queen Lucy stumbles, slides in the mud, but doesn't slow down. She skids to her knees at Peter's side and wrenches the tiny, crystal bottle of life-giving cordial from her belt. Her hands shake so badly that she can barely loose the stopper on it, but she forces calm on herself and slips a drop of the amber liquid between Peter's white lips. As she does, Queen Susan comes dashing over to her siblings and drops her legendary bow carelessly in the muck, collapsing to her knees by Peter's head and then gently lifting it into her lap. She carefully selects a clean section of her skirt and wipes the blood from his cheek. They wait in taut silence.

Then comes a slow, even breath, and a pair of summer blue eyes crack open. A wild, hysterically relieved laugh splutters out of King Edmund, and Queen Lucy bursts instantly and noisily into tears, throwing herself down onto her brother. Queen Susan tilts her face up to the sky and mouths a silent 'thank you,' helping Peter to sit up. He leans heavily back against her, pale and exhausted, but alive. She gives a tearful smile and runs her fingers through his hair, pressing her lips to it as he allows his head to fall back onto her shoulder. Edmunds grabs him into a rib-cracking embrace, kissing his temple soundly, and then allows Lucy to worm in between them and cuddle against Peter, hiccoughing wetly. Peter looks up out of his nest of siblings, catching Oreius's eyes, and his lips twitch into something resembling a tired smile of gratitude. Oreius returns the gesture with a slow nod. Once again, they have fought their way out of an impossible situation. They are experts at surviving against all odds. And he, with this strange emotional attachment to them, can only vow that never again will he leave one of them behind.

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><p><strong>AN: **Oreius is a strange one to write, especially as he is mostly just an observer here, but he is quite refreshing. I hope you enjoyed it, and reviews are much appreciated :)


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